Page 6 of Double Standard

Her phone buzzes, and it startles her back to reality. Whispering, “Give me a second,” she holds up a finger as she brings it to her ear. “Francesca, hi.”

An assistant opens the door to the costume room and gestures for Ana to come inside. She gives them a full palm to say,Wait. The assistant stiffens.

“Absolutely, that sounds great. I’m walking into my fitting now, but I’ll head over after. Em can pick up my script in the meantime.”

Emily, who’s been hanging back and watching this exchange with interest, nods.

“Sorry about that. We added a second character development session to the schedule, and trying to find time for eight of us—” Ana waves off the rest of the thought. “Oh, and she’s thrilled, by the way. Francesca.”

“That you found a time that works?”

“No,” Emily jumps in as the costumer beckons Ana. “That you agreed to do this with her.”

When Ana moves past me, she grabs my bicep and pauses for a beat, then tilts her head up to mine and brings her mouth to my ear. “This is going to be fun. Promise.”

When I pull back to meet her eyes, they flare with something real—mischief, maybe? I’m not sure if she’s talking about the film, our charade, or both. Before stepping through the threshold, she turns back. “And Levi?Does working out together on Tuesday still work for your schedule?”

“You bet.” The reply comes with artificial confidence because I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. We haven’t discussed working out on Tuesday.

But the costume assistant raises an eyebrow and then darts her eyes away from mine, as though she’s been caught hearing something she shouldn’t. Ana knows what she’s doing. That two-minute exchange was all it took for a crew member to assume there’s something going on between us. If the gym is where we persuade more people—and those outside of the studio, especially—great. I’m comfortable there.

Now I just have to get comfortable with her.

VII

Ana

Even at the most expensive gym in West Hollywood, the smell of testosterone hangs in the air: a unique combination of sweat, preworkout powder, and fragile male ego. While I typically work out with my trainer from the comfort of my home, there is no denying that Swole is the place to be if you want to be seen. Particularly if you want to be seen half-naked and glistening. Which I don’t, but I’ve certainly done worse for less exposure.

I leave the locker room, chrome water bottle dangling from my fingers and bumping against my hip with every step I take. The rhythm of it feels like the ticking of a clock, maybe a bomb, counting down to the moment when Levi walks in and we have to start this performance in earnest—and in public. Except, as I turn the corner, he’s already here, sitting on a bench in the lobby. In one hand, his phone, and in the other, a protein shake that he swirls absentmindedly as he scrolls.

He hasn’t noticed me, and I give him a once-over. Helooks like he belongs here, and he looksgood. Perhaps I should’ve considered, when I decided on the gym for this “date,” that he’d show up in a tank that shows off his traps and gym shorts that ride a little too high—a little too nicely—up the cut of his quads. And that I’d be here, staring at him half-naked while wearing painted-on leggings and a sports bra working overtime to cover my nipples. Nipples that are saying hello, that didn’t get the memo that this man is a business prospect, not a romantic one. We should’ve gotten coffee or something that requires full clothing coverage. I cross my arms over my chest and rub my hands along my upper arms to generate some heat. As if that’s the issue, that it’s cold in here.

“Ana.” Levi clocks me and stands up to greet me at the front desk. I straighten, swipe him in, and gesture for him to follow me onto the floor.

“Welcome to Swole.” I don’t miss a beat as he sidles up next to me. “A gym I’ve belonged to for five years and have visited probably five times, in part because there are always paps outside.” It’s like I’m speaking in code, staying cognizant that anyone in this place could be eavesdropping at any time, but still trying to signal to Levi that we’ll have the opportunity to be spotted together here.

When a woman tilts her cell phone in our direction, I thread my fingers through his. His warm, rough palm envelops mine, and energy radiates from the contact, sending pinpricks of heat up my arm.

“We’ll stay vigilant,” he says with a wink. “Where should we start?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

He catches my gaze, and there’s a glint in his hazel eyes and a soft smile at the corner of his lips. It etches a small dimple in his left cheek. At the studio the other day, he was stiff—he practically flinched when I touched his arm in passing. Here he looks settled. It makes me think we may actually be able to pull this off.

His palm squeezes mine. “Why don’t we start with some stretches?”

He lifts his chin in the direction of a pile of mats in the corner and tugs me gently toward the back of the space. My right hip cracks as I walk, and the sound prompts a visceral response—an immediate flood of hot and dizzying distress that lights up every corner of my body. And it hits me: I let myself get caught up in this charade and made plans toexercise, of all things. I thought only about where Levi might be comfortable, and where we could be photographed, and neglected to considerwhyI never come here.

“Wait—” I stop short of the mat he’s laid out. “Before we get started, you should know that I... well...” I stumble, looking for the words. His chestnut brows furrow in concern, eyes stuck on mine.

What do I say here?

It would be one thing if I’d practiced sharing the diagnosis with the people I care about, but instead, outside of my trainer, I’ve chosen to keep it to myself. Emily knowsthat I’m... particular about how I move my body. That I’m careful with what is stipulated in my contracts. But even she doesn’t know why. I’ve spent the better part of my life making accommodations I pray no one notices and doing my damnedest to ensure my issues are no one else’s problem. Years of guarding the reality of my needs with the care someone might use to handle a live grenade.

But now I have to tell Levi. Maybe this will be better? Maybe opening up to a relative stranger will be easier. I scan the gym and thank God everyone else in this weight room is focused on their machines.

“So I... before we start, I have this thing, and I have to be careful about how I stretch and work out. My connective tissue is crappy—it doesn’t function the way it should—and, well, I can very easily dislocate or subluxate my joints, kind of like a dislocation-lite. The condition makes me hypermobile, really flexible, but it also means I can easily push myself too far. It’s called Ehlers-Danlos, or EDS. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m weak or incapable if I need to modify whatever we’re about to do.”